


Will You Stay

by LadyLuthien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sick Character, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 13:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10219451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuthien/pseuds/LadyLuthien
Summary: Fenris gets a cold, as one is wont to do when one walks around barefoot all the time. Hawke insists on taking him home and putting some tea in him, but little does she realize that a feverish Fenris is a Fenris willing to let down one (1) emotional guard. Cavity-inducing fluff (and a little angst for seasoning).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am also sick (thanks to my partner) which is what inspired this fic, so please be patient with how my fever-brain did not edit. At all.

It had been a long, cold day. They were supposed to be tailing a Coterie buyer, someone who trafficked in lyrium and occasionally mages, but the cursed woman seemed to be doing all her shopping before she did anything even remotely Coterie-related. Hawke and Fenris had trailed her to a shoe store, then a hat store, then hidden in the frigid Docks while she agonized over whether to buy salmon or anchovies. And to make it worse, Fenris would not stop sniffling.

“Just admit you have a cold,” Hawke hissed at him after the fourth time.

“I am fine,” he mumbled, before sneezing raucously. Hawke unceremoniously pushed his head down as the woman they were tailing looked up from her anchovy perusal for a moment.

“Go home.” Hawke was far too tired for this. “You’re sick and you’re going to blow our cover.”

“I’m not letting you go by yourself.” Fenris’ nose was red, from cold or illness she was not sure.

“Then I’ll come with you. If we stop by the Hanged Man I can have Isabela keep an eye out for our woman.” Fenris opened his mouth to object, and Hawke raised a finger. “No.”

She could tell he was really sick when his ears drooped slightly and he scowled at her. “Fine.”

“Good. If we go down that alley we can loop around.”

She heard another covert sniff from Fenris as they left.

 

Isabela was happy to help, and even bought Fenris a glass of whiskey as a sympathy gesture. He drank it fast and coughed a little, but otherwise said nothing. Based on the droop of his ears, Hawke could tell he was really sick.

“Come on. We’ll get you back to your place and make you something hot,” she told him, and he simply nodded.

“Would you like to borrow a pair of my boots?” Isabela asked. “It’s cold outside.”

Fenris shook his head. “I prefer being barefoot.”

“Fenris, it’s almost snowing.” Hawke’s exasperation was tempered by worry. “At least borrow a scarf or something.”

“I have a cloak.” Fenris ducked his head, away from their concerned eyes.

 _Yes, that I bought for you your first winter here._ Hawke sighed. “Please? For me?”

He looked up at her, and there was a softness in his deep green eyes that touched her more than she would let on. “If you must insist.”

Isabela swung one languorous brown leg off the barstool she was sitting on. “I’ll pick out something lovely, don’t you fear. Maybe yellow, or pink?”

“You will never sleep peacefully again,” Fenris warned, but there was no teeth to it. He leaned on the bar and wiped his nose on a questionable scrap of fabric from his pocket. Hawke watched him affectionately. Even sick, he was still somehow attractive to her, although she was more interested in getting some hot tea in him than, well, getting _with_ him. She really should do something about this ridiculous crush. Anders made cow eyes at her every time she walked into his clinic and here she was pining after a prickly elf who hated mages and would not - stop - sniffing.

Isabela returned with a shawl of dark green wool. “I value my sleep,” she said, tossing it at him. “I’ll go find your mark, Hawke. You get ‘Broody’ home.”

“You’ve been spending too much time around Varric,” Hawke teased as they left.

 

It did start snowing as they walked to Fenris’ mansion, and Fenris finally acquiesced and put the scarf around his head so that only his eyes and the tips of his ears stuck out. All around them, people hurried through the streets, desperate for shelter. Hawke revelled in it. It snowed too rarely here, not like Ferelden, and the white flakes felt like home. Nonetheless, when Fenris sneezed again, she matched his quickening pace. His toes left small prints on the frost-covered cobblestones.

Finally, they were at his mansion, and Hawke hurried him inside. The door slammed and they were left in sudden, eerie silence. Only the wind howled outside.

“Go get in bed,” Hawke said briskly, brushing off her cloak. “I’ll bring you tea.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried for the kitchen.

To her surprise, the kitchen did not have the abandoned look of the rest of the mansion, although it was undeniably dilapidated. The sink was clean, as were the counters, and in one cupboard Hawke found a dented kettle and two mugs. Filling the kettle, she lit a fire with a whispered word and hung it to boil.

When she returned, carrying two steaming mugs of tea, Fenris had gathered a blanket from the bed and was sitting by the fire in his room. He was still wearing Isabela’s scarf.

“Here,” Hawke told him, handing him a mug. “Sure you don’t want to get in bed?”

“I don’t like beds,” he mumbled, taking a sip. Hawke noticed he was shivering.

“You don’t like - beds?”

“Slaves do not sleep in beds,” Fenris told her, in his usual direct manner. “Now I find them too soft.”

Hawke took a sip to steady the rage that welled up in her. “Where do you sleep, then?” She asked, attempting to keep her voice calm.

“In this chair, usually. Sometimes on the rug.” Fenris pulled the blanket tighter around him.

Hawke took a deep breath and sipped at her tea. Fenris gave her a wry look.

“You do not approve.”

Hawke considered for a moment. “Not that you were never given a bed before,” she said finally. “Now I guess it’s your choice.” Fenris gave a half-laugh and looked away from her, almost flattered. “But I do think, since you’re sick, you should sleep in the bed. A little softness won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not that sick,” he protested.

“Oh yeah?” Hawke rose, setting her mug down, and went to stand by him. “Can I feel your forehead and make my own judgement of that?”

After a moment, he inclined his head, and she brushed away his bangs gently - _his hair is so soft -_ and laid the back of her hand on his forehead like her mother did every time they got sick. There were three little lyrium dots there, she noticed, and carefully placed her hand so as to not irritate them.

“You’re definitely feverish,” she told him, removing her hand. “That blanket will trap heat much better if you’re in bed.”

He looked up at her, wariness in his green eyes, and she amended her phrase. “But like I said, it’s your choice.”

Fenris sighed and looked down, and Hawke returned to her abandoned mug of tea.

“Do you want anything to eat?” She said after a pause.

Fenris shook his head. “I think I just want to go to sleep.” His voice was small and tired.

“Okay.” Hawke drained the rest of her tea and rose. “I can take your mug back to the kitchen.”

As she passed him, one gauntleted hand slipped out from under the blanket and caught her wrist. “Will you stay for a little while?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

Hawke felt her heart swell painfully. “Of course, Fenris,” she told him gently. “Let me put these mugs away and I’ll be back. You - you decide where you want to sleep, okay?”

When she returned, he was seated on the edge of the bed, freed from armor and gauntlets, still wrapped in the blanket and Isabela’s scarf. Hawke sat down next to him, feeling the bed creak with her weight. After a moment, she put an arm around him, waiting for him to flinch or move away.

He did not, and she carefully tightened her arm until she had him in a firm half-hug. He was small under his armor, smaller than she had realized, his leanly muscled elf-frame still shivering. Carefully, testingly, she rubbed her hand up and down his arm. After a moment, he lowered his head and leaned into her.

Hawke rested her head on his, feeling his soft white hair on her cheek. Gently, she kept rubbing his arm, holding him tightly next to her. He was still tense, even tired and sick and miles from anything that could hurt him. As if she would let anything get through her to him.

She must have tensed, because he raised his head. “I may not have much experience with beds, but I believe I am supposed to lie down.”

Hawke chuckled and, reluctantly, dropped her arm. “I believe you are.” Placing her hands behind her, she scooted further onto the bed, and Fenris twisted until his legs were on the bed. Clumsily, he lowered himself until his head rested stiffly on the pillow.

“Normally, people also relax when they lie down,” she told him quietly, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle. Taking the blanket, she pulled until he released his grip and she could cover his feet. “Would you like me to stay for a little longer?” Boldly, she reached out a hand and caressed his shoulder.

To her surprise, he wriggled himself until he was pressing against her leg, and she chuckled. “Okay.” She was certain that he would be able to hear her heart beating out a nervous tattoo against his back when she laid down next to him, but he just buried his head in the pillow and wrapped an arm over hers.

Hawke almost stopped breathing in her desire to cherish the moment. Yes, he was sick, which was bad, but she was actually in his bed. Cuddling. She was cuddling someone. Fenris, to be specific. Even Varric could not bend the truth enough to claim Fenris was cuddly.

It had been a long time since Hawke had simply held someone - not since Lothering, unless drunkenly sitting on Isabela’s lap counted. This was different. Fenris was all angles, the lines of lyrium on his palm sparking deliciously against her arm where they touched with no blanket. His hair was soft and white, fanned out on the pillow like a ghostly halo. She could feel his breathing against her. Carefully, she lifted her other hand and gently stroked his hair. At that moment, if she was not mistaken, he let out an almost purring sound of contentment.

They lay there like that for a long time, as the dying firelight flickered over the ceiling and Fenris’ breathing slowly steadied. When he let out a small snore, Hawke knew he was asleep, and she carefully disentangled herself. Rising, she tucked the corner of the blanket over his shoulder, covering his exposed hand. For a wild moment, she considered kissing him - not on the lips, of course, but on the head, or the shoulder, or the hand - before changing her mind. That would be too much of an invasion. Too much like taking advantage.

A few extra logs and a murmured word and the fire rose high and warm again, dancing over his tan skin and white hair. At the doorway, Hawke turned and looked back, her heart swelling at the sight of him cocooned in blankets in the shadows. After a moment of deliberation, she kissed her fingertips and extended them out to him, a silent, wordless blessing, before slipping out into the snow and dark.

When she woke the next morning with a sore throat and sniffly nose, she almost regretted it. Almost.


End file.
